


Up in the Rafters

by verbaepulchellae



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clarke and Bellamy build a village with their friends and all is well, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Season 3 divergent, Smut, sleepy cuddly sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26387536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaepulchellae/pseuds/verbaepulchellae
Summary: He shifts as she lifts the furs, frowning as he turns toward her, not half awake yet and still muttering, “Clarke?”“Yeah, just me,” she whispers and watches the furrow in his brow ease.“S’cold,” he complains, even as he hooks an arm across her and pulls her close to him. He runs his hand down her bare back and rubs the small of it, right above her tailbone, like he’s trying to warm her up. The movement is too sleep infused and too easy to do much good, hardly more than soft twitches of his fingers as he breathing stays deep and even, but his touch warms Clarke’s chest. She presses closer to him, nuzzles at his face to kiss his jaw and the corner of his mouth in the hushed darkness of their home.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 28
Kudos: 288





	Up in the Rafters

**Author's Note:**

> While I've clearly been checked out of fandom and not watching this show anymore, I heard what happened. This has sat in my drafts for too long, and hopefully it can be a remedy for some truly terrible, petty canon writing.
> 
> Originally it was meant to be part of a longer fic but I just never got around to writing it, and it stands along relatively well. 
> 
> At the end of the day, take the best of it, and leave the rest.

It’s late when Clarke finally gets home, the packed snow crunches brittle under her boots and she can feel the cold of the steel latch even through her rabbit skin gloves. It’s bitterly cold, too cold for fresh snow, too cold to really even be outside, and she wouldn’t have bothered to leave her home today if it wasn’t for visiting several patients in their homes. 

Bellamy had come with her this morning, pulling his own fur cap down low over his ears and brow and then trying to stuff Clarke into another layer, only half in jest, Clarke thinks, despite his teasing. He’d gone to walk the periphery of their small but thriving community, worried about the well frozen over and the hush of the town. Despite having been raised on the morals of safety in silence, or maybe because of it, Bellamy gets uneasy when it’s quiet for too long, gets a restlessness that can only be soothed by contact and physical proof.

“Don’t get lost,” Clarke had teased him as they’d paused right before going their own ways for the day. Bellamy had pulled her close so he could stick his cold nose in her ear and make her squirm, giggling and trying to get away even as she curled her fingers into his jacket to keep him close.

“My tough guard dog,” he’d teased her. “Me? I couldn’t even hope to get lost, you’d track me down.”

“Probably, because you’re terrible at covering your tracks,” Clarke’d groused and turned her head up for a kiss, which Bellamy gave her, cupping her cheek in his hand and despite the layers between them, brushing his thumb along her jaw.

“Well, that’s the point. You’re a fucking joke of a tracker.”

Clarke had thumped his chest, lightly. “I got better,” she’d huffed.

“Sure, Clarke. Sure.” He left her with a kiss pressed to her forehead, and an affectionate tap on her hip.

The home they built out of rocks and logs is cozy, built for efficiency and intimacy, but even with the fire lit in the hearth and the soapstone chimney that doubles as a furnace, it’s only marginally warmer than outside. Bellamy isn’t in his usual haunts on the ground floor when Clarke pushes aside the bear skin they’ve hung to keep the worst of the draft from the door out. She’s not surprised. It’s late and Bellamy, in times of stability and peace, has proven himself to be a lover of sleep to rival the best of them. 

Still, the little touches of his presence reassure the anxious part of Clarke that he’s made it home from his patrol. When she hangs up her coat, his deerskin is there on the hook with his boots set neatly below it. On the table, he’s left her a plate with a thick slice of seeded brown bread, a few slices of jerky and a cup of what Clarke realizes is wine when she picks it up. 

His whittling supplies are still out too, and the little dome he’s been working on for a rattle is a little smoother, a little thinner when Clarke runs her fingers over it.

From the ceiling of their loft, dried herbs hang along with a new, thick slab of dried venison. She catches its salty, rich smell mixing with the sharp scents of thyme and chicory when she steps underneath to add a log to the fire, starting to burn down in their stone fireplace. On the mantle, they’ve set pretty shells and rocks, odd twisting tree branches and colorful pieces of sea glass. Once the winter set in, Bellamy draped fresh boughs of pine to keep their home smelling fresh and Clarke sweeps the scattered needles off the hearth to gather into a little cloth pouch. She has half a mind to make it into sweet smelling pillow to put in the baby’s crib.

She’s half tempted to linger by the fire to warm up and wolf down the food Bellamy left out for her, but she’s tired and more than the soft crackle of the fire and more than the sharp taste of wine on her tongue, she wants Bellamy.

They only sleep tucked away up in the loft in the winter months, seven feet up off the floor, and built around the upper reaches of the chimney. It’s warmer up there, and snug with the soft, dark thatches of their roof above them and Bellamy’s skin flush against hers on the mattress they stuffed and tucked under fur blankets and old soft sheets. The glow from the fire down below just illuminates the lump that Clarke knows to be Bellamy under the furs, the little wooden table with dried flowers; old, almost crumbling books they keep, and her father’s watch. 

Even with the warmth from the chimney, Clarke shivers as she strips off her clothes, her fingers tingling as they begin to warm up from her walk home. She piles her clothes on the chest, a gift from Roan, thankfully sans Emerson this time, and she hurriedly slides into bed next to Bellamy. 

He shifts as she lifts the furs, frowning as he turns toward her, not half awake yet and still muttering, “Clarke?” 

“Yeah, just me,” she whispers and watches the furrow in his brow ease. 

“S’cold,” he complains, even as he hooks an arm across her and pulls her close to him. He runs his hand down her bare back and rubs the small of it, right above her tailbone, like he’s trying to warm her up. The movement is too sleep infused and too easy to do much good, hardly more than soft twitches of his fingers as he breathing stays deep and even, but his touch warms Clarke’s chest. She presses closer to him, nuzzles at his face to kiss his jaw and the corner of his mouth in the hushed darkness of their home. 

“Huh. Hey, Clarke,” Bellamy mumbles, coming awake under the press of her lips, a little slow to kiss her back but then chasing her as he blinks open his eyes. He holds her still, hand moving to the nape of her neck as an anchor and kisses her for real, huffing a little through his nose as he adjusts to being awake. His breath fans across Clarke’s face and she loves him so much, her heart hurts with it.

“I found you,” Clarke tells him as Bellamy pulls back and shifts his head on the pillow to look at her better. “Not such a bad tracker after all, am I?”

His lips twitch. “I left you an easy trail.”

“Well, I’ll admit maybe you wanted me to find you,” Clarke decides and it makes Bellamy chuckle, deep and low, and bump his nose against hers.

“Can’t imagine why, here, in our bed,” he rumbles and cups the side of her neck before dragging his palm down over her collarbone to stroke across her breasts. “Seems pretty far fetched if you ask me.”

Clarke returns the favor by sneaking her cold fingers down his stomach and Bellamy hisses.

“Fuck, Clarke,” Bellamy growls, grabbing her wrist half heartedly to keep her from trying to warm her fingers against his soft cock. “Don’t be a dick.”

“It’s payback,” Clarke reminds him. “And revenge is a dish best served _cold_.” Clarke giggles as she makes another play at curling his fingers around his cock and Bellamy effectively traps her wrist, pulls her hand up against his chest.

“You been working on that all day, huh, Clarke?” Bellamy rasps, his smile huge against her lips because he loves their stupid jokes. “All day and that’s the best you could come up with?”

“But you’re so warm there,” Clarke pouts, ignoring his teasing, and Bellamy takes pity on her and tucks her fingers under his arm. Clarke flattens her hand over his side and feels his musculature, his ribs just there under his skin. “You have a good day?” Clarke wonders as Bellamy thumbs at the corner of her mouth.

“Not too bad,” he confirms. “Miller and I broke through the ice on the well, wasn’t too thick yet, but I’m thinking we should to set up a team to check it every few hours if these temperatures keep up. Um,” he distracts himself with kissing her again and Clarke hooks her ankle over his calf, curling her toes to feel the wiry hair on his legs and, against her stomach, Bellamy’s cock twitches. He slides his hand up to tangle in her hair and Clarke _wants_ him.

“Um,” Bellamy sighs, breaking away and fisting his hand in her hair to give her a little affectionate shake. “Harper sent some bread home with me, and Monty and Raven told me to tell you the mobile is almost ready.” Bellamy’s quiet for a moment and then, “How’s the kid?”

“Wriggly,” Clarke says. “And fat and happy, smiling at everyone and everything. My mom and Kane are exhausted, but happy. They asked for you.”

“Yeah?” Bellamy hums and kisses her forehead, thoughtful. 

Bellamy had surprised them both when he couldn’t stand being around Vega when he started crying. It’d made Bellamy’s shoulders hunch and he’d been unable to stay seated, anxiety clear in the tense lines of his body. “Sorry,” Bellamy had said, gruff, and excused himself from Abby and Kane’s home, waited outside scuffing his boot in the dirt until Clarke found him and wrapped her arms around him, forehead on his back.

“It’s ok,” she had whispered but Bellamy had just shaken his head. 

Clarke knows Bellamy loves Octavia in a fierce, unconditional way. Knows that he takes extra time when a child asks him a question to explain the answer, usually dropping down to the kid’s level, sometimes drawing in the dirt. Bellamy loves children in a quiet, protective way, curious and encouraging with them at once. But babies, irrational, unpredictable and loud, trigger something deep within him that he can’t calm. It’s the deep seated, irreversible fear of living with a baby and knowing the second she cries too loud at the wrong moment, everything he knows, everyone he loves, vanishes. 

Clarke’s not sure how someone unlearns that kind of trauma other than living with the proof that things have changed. It’ll take time and several years of their friends and families having kids before Bellamy doesn’t associate a baby crying with the risk of losing everything. But when it comes down to it, in some ways it’s a relief. Clarke, unlike all of their other friends, has kept her contraceptive implant: she’s not sure she’s anywhere near, not for a while yet at least, being free enough from the weight of her grief to handle a child in her life. 

Besides, she and Bellamy have had years of taking on too much, of losing childhoods when they were too young to know what that meant. For now, for a while, they just get to be young, to be themselves and learn who they are without the constant overhanging shadow of death.

“You falling asleep, Clarke?” Bellamy wonders in the soft silence between them, and Clarke presses a kiss to his collarbone, recognizes the tone where Bellamy’s wondering if he can slide back towards sleep himself.

“Mm, I could,” Clarke admits, and then props her chin up on his chest and smiles at him slow. “Or we could fuck.”

A little jolt goes through Bellamy, his fingers tensing against Clarke’s shoulder and he laughs, low and husky. “Yeah, or we could fuck.” He pulls at Clarke so she’s closer to his mouth again and lifts his head to kiss her, more intention in the flick of his tongue against her lips than before.

“How do you want it?” Bellamy rumbles at her and Clarke shivers. There are so many ways she loves, but after a day out in the cold away from Bellamy, all she can think about is having him close and warm.

“On my stomach,” Clarke whispers, nuzzling as jawline. “I want you on me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I like the sound of that,” Bellamy agrees and gives her space to untangle and roll onto her stomach, settling a pillow under her head as Bellamy hefts himself up to brace over her back, staddling her legs. In his kneeling up, the cold air rush in between them and Clarke feels gooseflesh ripple up her back, feels Bellamy run a large, warm hand down her spine in response. His cock brushes against the underside of her ass and Clarke lets her legs fall open. 

“God, the sight of you.” Bellamy trails off and then she feels his thumbs on her cunt, spreading her labia open and sliding through the slick arousal down to press gently against her clit, give her a little rub. Clarke shivers and gets her elbows under her to rock back as much as she can.

“Feel how wet you are?” Bellamy asks her, voice soft and distracted, and when she peeks over her shoulder, he’s watching his hands on her, his cock hard against his abs. “You get this wet just kissing me?”

“Just being close to you,” Clarke murmurs, feeling her face flush and rests her forehead against her forams. 

“Flirt,” Bellamy tells her, sounding fond and warm, and he pauses the slow grind of his thumb to just cup her cunt, his hand comforting. He gives her a flat rub and swears softly under his breath, trails his fingers over her thigh and Clarke feels the slick he leaves. “Hot, huh?” Bellamy asks her and Clarke laughs. 

“Hotter if you did something about it,” she says, trying for cool but gives herself away when Bellamy pushes two fingers into her and her voice goes breathy at the end. 

“Like that?” Bellamy asks, knowing and amused. “Do something like that, babe?”

Clarke clenches down on his fingers in response, gives a slow roll of her hips, and Bellamy’s chuckle is a little strained. “That’s a start,” she says, having to grip the sheets because fuck, like this, with her legs bracketed by Bellamy’s and the angle of her hips, even just two of Bellamy’s fingers feel like a lot. He gives them a slow, careful twist and it pushes a helpless noise from Clarke’s mouth. “A good start,” she amends.

Bellamy works her on his fingers slow, brushes them against the spot inside Clarke that makes her gasp and twitch only a few times, just as a tease, mostly just lets her get used to feeling filled before he adds a third. “Clarke,” he groans at her moan. “Babe, you sound so good.”

“Come on, Bellamy,” Clarke urges him, shivering a little, either with the cool air or the hot twist of his fingers, she’s not sure. “Hurry up.”

“You’re so pushy, Clarke, goddamn.” Bellamy pulls his fingers from inside her and when Clarke glances back at him, he’s rubbing his palm over the head of his cock, slicking it up. “Maybe I just want to feel up my girl, huh?” Bellamy complains even as he shifts and there’s the blunt nudge of the head of his cock pushing into her. “You ever think about that?”

Clarke gasps, witty response dying on her tongue as Bellamy’s cock fills her. She fists her fingers into the pillow because this position is so much, so good that she can’t think straight. 

“Yeah?” Bellamy whispers, dropping the game, his attention fully on Clarke as he rocks just there, not pushing deeper yet. Clarke moans a little, feeling the stretch of it. “Tell me you like it,” Bellamy insists. “Tell me it’s good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I love it.”

“Love it too,” Bellamy tells her and drops down to brace his arms on either side of her shoulders, slides deeper into her and Clarke’s breath hitches and hitches again. “There you go, babe. Close those legs now, huh? Nice and tight, just like you need.” When she does, his legs follow hers, locking them in place and Clarke shivers all over with it. He kisses her between her shoulder blades and then eases his weight onto her, untangles her fingers from the pillow so she holds onto him instead. 

Bellamy’s chest is warm, expansive and comforting after the cool air against her back and Clarke shifts, feeling his solid weight, feeling his cock inside her and his thighs hugging hers. Clarke turns her head and Bellamy presses slow kisses to her brow and her cheek bone, the corner of her mouth. He noses into her hairline and returns her sigh, soft and contended. He gives her the moment to squeeze his fingers, to settle here, just feel him in her and surrounding her and keeping her still. 

There’s a sweetness in the quiescence before they start, Bellamy’s lips on her skin and Clarke lulled by the beat of his heart against her back, the stretch of Bellamy’s cock, the familiar smell of their home and Bellamy and sex everything she needs. She stretches with the luxury of it and Bellamy chuckles and uses her motion to draw her hands up above the pillow and brace himself.

“How ‘bout it?” Bellamy murmurs in her ear and then kisses her neck. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Clarke breathes and the first deep, slow rock of Bellamy’s hips, his cock dragging inside her makes Clarke’s whimper high pitched and helpless. God, it’s so intense, so tight, like there’s barely enough room inside her skin for both of them, she’s that full of Bellamy. 

Clarke is easily undone like this, the inability to set the pace or change the angle always makes each of Bellamy’s thrusts thrill through her body, his cock getting that much deeper. In any other position Clarke would squirm away, find something lighter and less direct, but sometimes Bellamy likes to make her take it, likes to use his weight and heft to keep her pleasure hot and intense and all consuming. She knows there’s a thrill of something deep and masculine about it for him; Clarke never lets anyone else overwhelm her, except Bellamy. 

“Easy,” Bellamy whispers, nosing at her cheek. He fucks her slow and deep, barely pulling out before he’s sliding back in, working his hips in gentle semi-circles rather than fucking hard into her like he does when she’s on her knees. “Breathe, Clarke.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke whimpers because god, the unrelenting, gentle grind of his cock deep inside her makes Clarke feel like she’s going to shake apart, that her body can’t stand it, the way the pleasure shivers out along her legs and then settles intense and red hot right in her cunt. She twists under him, trying to find a little relief, but Bellamy keeps her still, squeezes her hands. “God, Bellamy. It’s- I can’t-”

“I’m right here.” Bellamy soothes her, the rumble of it deep in his chest and she can feel it against her back. “You’re okay, Clarke. I’m gonna take care of you.”

Clarke shakes under him, turns desperately for a kiss and Bellamy hums into it, sucks her tongue when she tries to tease him into biting her, trying for anything to counter the sweet, overwhelming feeling of his cock, but he doesn’t give it to her. Her breath is short and high, and she can’t keep from whining with how much she likes it. Her thighs are wet and sticky and her clit brushes the bed with every rock of their hips. 

It’s hard, to feel this. Hard to feel filled by Bellamy, taken care of to the point where she almost can’t stand how good it is: has to fight it before she can let it wash over her. Without Bellamy’s weight on her, without him holding her there and gusting his breath along her neck, not letting her tap out too quickly, Clarke wouldn’t be able to take it, wouldn’t reach the point where she gets loose and easy and her mind quiets to just Bellamy.

Bellamy noses at her temple, brushes his thumbs along the sides of hers and keeps his breath slow and deep, a reminder for Clarke as she can’t stop whimpering. “I know, I know,” Bellamy soothes her as she manages his name. “You take it so well, Clarke. Christ, you’re so tight, babe. Nice and easy for me, huh? I’ve got you, you can just let go for me.” 

“I need-” Clarke pants and Bellamy shifts, pulls their interlaced fingers down so that he can offer her his thumb and she latches on, relieved and grateful. She can taste her own tang from when he rubbed her off and the faintest brine of salt from his cock when he lined himself up; both are deeply, comfortingly familiar on Bellamy’s fingers and with the low rumble of his voice, it’s enough. She lets Bellamy’s thumb rest against her tongue as he kisses the corner of her mouth, knows his eyes are hot on where her lips are parted when he draws back. 

The deep, sweet feeling of Bellamy’s cock inside her, of his body on top of her goes from almost too much to exactly right, the hot pleasure in her clit becoming promising rather than unbearable. Clarke feels the tension release in her shoulders, her body relax under Bellamy’s and she sighs with it.

“That’s it,” Bellamy whispers as Clarke’s body loosens. “Oh that’s right, Clarke. There you go, babe. Just let me fuck you, just let me make you feel good.” 

She hums, pulls off his thumb enough to mouth at his hand, press kisses to it as Bellamy deepens his thrusts into her, making them just a little harder, just a little longer and Clarke grasps at his hands, his forearms.

Time slows and expands, measured in the warmth of Bellamy above her; the rock of his hips against her ass; the wet slide of his cock inside her; the thrum in her clit getting deeper, more promising, richer. They trade kisses over her shoulder, mouths half open, sharing the gusts of their breath between them. She could do this forever, for always, freeze time and live eternally with Bellamy inside her and around her, and know that here and now nothing can touch them, nothing will take this from them. But they’re too good to each other, too familiar with each other’s bodies and pleasure to resist edging closer to losing control. Bellamy’s breath shudders against her neck as she clenches down on him in purposeful pulses, and she whimpers out a high, helpless sound as he shifts his weight and finds an even deeper angle. 

“It’s so good,” she whispers. “Bellamy, feels so good, please.”

“Sweet thing,” Bellamy says, voice rough and fond. “Please what?”

Clarke’s nearly out of her mind, but not so gone she can’t nip at Bellamy’s fingers, knows this game he’s playing too and, sure enough, she feels Bellamy’s smirk in her neck. “That’s how it is, huh? My girl asks nicely, but won’t tell me what she wants? You gonna make me guess, Clarke?”

“I think you know,” Clarke says, tilting her neck to the side and Bellamy takes her up on her offer, kisses open mouthed down the side of her neck and sets his teeth into her shoulder, bites down. “Fuck, Bellamy.”

“Mm,” he hums and then, the last thing Clarke wants, he stills inside her. 

“Bellamy,” Clarke groans, frustrated and desperate. “Not that.”

“Not this?” Bellamy wonders, lips brushing where he’d bitten her. “You sure ‘bout that?” He shifts and lets go of one of her hands and works his own underneath her to get his fingers on her clit.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Clarke whines, whole body seizing because she knows this sort of torture. “Oh god, oh god, Bellamy.” Bellamy hums and works two fingers over her, light, soft circles that he tightens and firms up, gets mean about it as Clarke shakes under his body, held still under his weight and gasping. 

“You sure you don’t like this?” Bellamy murmurs, but his voice is a little breathy. He rocks his hips just enough so his cock bumps again and again deep inside her, right where it counts and Clarke has to muffle herself in their pillow, doesn’t trust the pitchiness of her voice and Bellamy’s smug pride that her voice won’t carry. “Fuck babe, the way you’re getting sweet and tight? Feels to me like you like it a lot.”

“Bellamy, please,” Clarke pants, almost can’t find the words because everything is high strung, tight, shaking pleasure and Bellamy’s soft breath against her neck is it’s own kind of sensory overload. “Fuck, I want to come.”

“That’s my girl,” Bellamy growls and his circles are replaced by a hard and quick rub, just focused work right on her clit. Clarke yelps, thrashes without any relief as Bellamy curls his free hand under her chest to somehow catch the hand he had abandoned and lets her hang onto him. “You know how to,” Bellamy reminds her, his voice getting rougher as Clarke whines, high and desperate. “Just feel it, babe. Just feel it.”

It’s almost frightening to let herself drop into the hot, full pleasure that Bellamy’s giving her with his fingers and his cock, but she’s got his hand in hers and his long, strong body along her back, his voice in her ear. Her voice stutters and trips, and she’s barely aware of what she’s saying anymore, maybe nonsense, maybe soft pleas, but she manages a deeper breath and focuses on the way Bellamy’s fingers are rough and calloused and wet with her own arousal and it’s enough. Clarke hears herself moan, hears Bellamy’s groan and he’s murmuring something into her neck as her orgasm crashes over her, intense and hot and knocking the breath from her lungs it lasts so long. Bellamy’s fingers are still massaging her, his cock still fucking her and Clarke feels the tears in her eyes when she starts to come down, over sensitive and twitching.

“More?” Bellamy asks and Clarke knows her moan is pitiful. 

“Just you,” she whispers. “You come too, Bellamy.”

“Fuck,” Bellamy groans. “Not gonna be a problem, babe. Not after you come like that, huh? Not when you’re so good for me, so tight and sweet and-” Bellamy loses track of his affections, his hips snapping hard into Clarke, his growl vibrating into her neck and Clarke squeezes his fingers, manages a little rock back into Bellamy and the noise he makes when he comes is almost tortured.

Their skin slides together slickly, Bellamy’s full weight against her for a moment and Clarke mouths a little at their intertwined fingers, feels the answering lazy movement of Bellamy’s mouth against her own skin. It’s a small eternity of peace, and then he rolls off her. Clarke misses him, the length of his chest and thighs leaving her lonely until Bellamy grabs her arm and hauls her across his body. 

“How’s that? Comfy?” He tucks her head into the hollow of his shoulder and pulls the furs up tight around them, tucking them under Clarke’s chin. He rubs his hands over Clarke’s shoulder blades, twining her hair around his fingers. Clarke rubs her nose against him and sighs.

“Very. Comfy and fucked out.”

“I aim to please,” Bellamy drawls a little, voice slurring and Clarke reaches up to touch his face without looking at him. He’s relaxed under her, and tilts his head so that her fingers brush against his lips and he can mouth at them lazily. 

Under her cheek, his heartbeat slows and below, a log shifts in the fireplace, settles. Maybe tomorrow the cold will break and it will snow. Maybe tomorrow, they’ll afford themselves an extra hour in the morning, when they’re just each other’s and not their small villages. She’ll make them chicory coffee over the fire and Bellamy will lay out the old books on the breakfast table and together they’ll keep working on deciphering a language that all but died with the bombs. 

“Sleep, Clarke,” Bellamy murmurs against her forehead, his hand soothing at the nape of her neck. 

“You sleep,” Clarke argues for the sake of it, and smiles at his chuckle. 

They chase each other into their dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> ❤


End file.
